


Paying Penance

by AyeWriteCara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Anxiety, Cutting, Dean-Centric, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6075438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyeWriteCara/pseuds/AyeWriteCara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Season 4.</p><p>Dean has been rescued from Hell, his body rebuilt and restored. But something isn't the same and as Dean struggles with feelings of guilt and self-loathing, he falls into dangerous habits.</p><p>This fic deals with serious mental ill-health and self-harm. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of serious self-injurious behaviours, such as cutting, which may be EXTREMELY TRIGGERING. Please, if you feel vulnerable or at risk, do not read this fic.

The only sound in the grim motel room was the barely-there static of the muted TV, and Sam’s soft snoring. It was a comforting almost-silence.

Dean locked the en-suite bathroom door and sat down on the toilet seat. Wearing only his underwear, Dean looked down at his bare thighs. His skin was pale and unblemished; sparse hair, a few freckles, nothing else. Dean ran the palms of his hands down his thighs to his knees. No bumps, no risen scar tissue. He turned his hands over and regarded his bare forearms. The skin there was soft and uncorrupted.

In fact, his whole body was unmarked. He knew because he’d checked, looked over and over for anything - an old stab wound, a burn, a bullet hole. All his freckles were as he remembered them, tiny birthmark on his ass, still there, but there was nothing to betray his old life.

Dean opened the wash bag by the sink. Inside was a matchbox and inside that, a sharp, glinting razor blade. This was familiar, this Dean knew. It both comforted and tormented him. Dean wondered if he could recreate every last scar he so missed.

He paused, listening for Sam’s even breathing. He was asleep. Dean pressed the cold razor blade to his left forearm and held his breath.

“Dean. Don’t.”

Dean flinched, nicking the skin at his wrist and dropping the thin blade on the tiled floor.

Castiel stood by the sink.

“Jesus, Cas! Privacy! I'm in my damn underwear!” Dean fumbled to pick up the blade and turned his back on Cas to hide the thin piece of metal back in the matchbox and hide it away. As if he could make it disappear.

Cas tilted his head and looked down at Dean. “You’re hurt.”

“No, I’m not. I’m fine,” Dean said, through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding.” Castiel’s tone was wistful, soft. Before Dean had a chance to protest, Cas touched his wrist and the nick was gone, the blood with it.

Gruffly, Dean said “thanks” and picked up his discarded t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head.

“Dean -”

“Keep your voice down!” Dean hissed. “Sam’s asleep. What do you want, Cas?” He pulled on his jeans as he spoke, and buttoned them.

“I was worried.”

Dean stamped on his boots. “Let’s get out of here.” He unlocked the bathroom and eased the door open; Sam stirred but didn’t wake. Dean snatched up his keys and jacket. He turned but Cas was already gone. Dean bit back a curse and went out anyway - and collided with Cas just outside the door.

“God damn it, Cas!” He grabbed the angel’s arm and turned him towards the bar across the street.

Dean went to the bar with Cas trailing behind him. He ordered a bottle of beer and two fingers of whisky. Cas declined the offer of a drink but Dean bought him a beer anyway. The place was quiet; they sat down at an empty booth.

“So, what’s the word?”

Castiel’s piercing blue eyes searched Dean’s face but Dean avoided eye contact. Dean swallowed the whisky and savoured the burn. He followed it with a mouthful of beer.

When Cas didn’t speak - just sat there looking confused as if Dean had asked him a riddle instead of a simple question - Dean snapped, “Cas! What?”

Across the table, Castiel blinked. In the months since Dean had been  _ back  _ and learned that angels were real and Heaven was real and not only that God was real ( _ bastard _ ) but that Sam actually prayed to Him and had done for years, Castiel was still the most bizarre element of it all. He was always looking at Dean, watching him, with a benevolent, searching expression. If it had been anyone else, Dean might have lost his patience and popped him but there was something both innocent and ferocious about Cas that made Dean cautious.

“I was concerned for your well-being, Dean,” Cas said, his voice gravelly yet measured. “Your welfare is very important to me. You are -”

“The Righteous Man, yeah, yeah,” Dean cut in.

“I was going to say,” Cas said patiently, “you are my friend.”

Dean put his bottle down on the table. He didn't look at Cas, he just turned the bottle round and round. “You don’t have to worry about me, buddy. I’m peachy.” He was tired. He sighed without really meaning to.

“I don’t think you are ‘peachy’, as you say,” He did the air quotes as he spoke.

Dean picked up his beer and drained it. He held the empty bottle up to a passing waitress, who nodded and brought him another “Thanks, darlin’.” He smiled at her then turned back to Castiel. “You could take off your coat off, you know. And drink your damn beer.”

Castiel left the coat on but he did take a tentative sip of his beer. He pressed his lips together and frowned.

“You get used to it,” Dean assured him.

They sat in silence for a while, Dean drinking and Castiel watching him drink. When Castiel had finished one bottle, Dean had emptied four, and chased them with two more whiskies. He stood up unsteadily. Cas moved to follow him.

“Dude, relax. I’m going to the can.” When Castiel didn’t move back into the booth, Dean said, “sit.” Cas did.

After he relieved himself Dean rolled up his shirt sleeves and washed his hands. For a moment, he was distracted again by his own skin but he shook himself off and went back through to the bar where Cas sat, back straight, eyes forward.

“Hello, Dean,” he said when Dean sat back down, as if he had been gone for days.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said indulgently. The empty bottles had been cleared from the table and a fresh beer stood on a fraying cardboard coaster, like an offering.

“The girl came,” Cas said and nodded at the bottle.

“You didn’t get another for yourself?” Dean said, raising his glass as if he was toasting something.

“Another time, perhaps,” Cas said.

Castiel’s eyes moved to Dean’s still exposed arms. Now Dean was the watcher as Cas seemed to silently come to some kind of conclusion. Without looking up, he said “you have a question for me, don’t you, Dean?”

Castiel said Dean’s name more frequently than anyone else in his life. Far more than was necessary for emphasis or to get his attention. Across the room, the jukebox clicked and whirred and began to play a song Dean recognised but didn’t know the name of.  _ The rain’ll wash away the piss and blood but water’s not enough to wash away the things I’ve done… _

“Dean.”

Peeling the label from his bottle, Dean looked at his arms again. “When you brought me back,” he said, the words slurred, his voice not sounding like his own, saying things he didn’t want to hear, “how did you do it?”

“I told you. I carried your soul.”

“I mean my body, Cas. I was dead, I was rotten meat, six feet under.”

Castiel tilted his head again, a strange little quirk that made Dean think about dogs. He didn’t like dogs.

“I rebuilt you, in my Father’s image.”

“Ah. Okay. Now I get it,” Dean smiled, nastily, and tipped his bottle towards Cas. “That explains it.”

Cas didn’t reply. Dean drank then set the bottle down and leaned forward.

“In your Father’s image. But it’s not me. This,” he held his arms out, “this isn’t me. I know this damn liver is clean as a whistle, that’s for sure.” He laughed bitterly.

“I did my best to -”

“To what?  _ Cleanse _ me? Bang up job, Cas. Really. Not a mark on me, huh? Sin free. Thanks. I feel terrific.”

Cas looked as close to stricken as Dean had ever seen him. “I did what I thought was best. To recreate something destroyed isn't easy to do. The skill… I feared it was beyond me. I wanted to send you back improved.”

“Improved?” Dean spat the word.

For the first time he saw Castiel falter. “I meant… unharmed.”

“Well, like I said,” Dean murmured. “Good job.” He slammed down his drink and went to the bar to pay the tab.

Sam was still asleep when Dean fumbled through the motel door. He stripped to his drawers and got under the covers. If he'd been sober, he might have been kept awake with thoughts of Cas and razor blades and Dad and Alasdair and hell hounds. Instead there was enough booze in his blood to put him into a swift and fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic descriptions of serious self-harm (namely, cutting) and a person in significant emotional and psychological distress.
> 
> PLEASE if you feel vulnerable or at risk, do not read any further. The contents of this fic may be TRIGGERING for you.
> 
> (If you are struggling with anxiety, depression, or self-injurious or suicidal impulses, please remember, you are not alone. There is no shame in saying "I need help".)

Alcohol and the sharpness of his knife dulled any pain Dean might have felt when he cut his arm. The skin split and there was a moment before the blood swelled and bubbled to the surface. Dean gave a shuddering breath and cut again. Blood dripped down his forearm to the crook of his elbow where it pooled before spilling onto the tiled floor. By the fourth cut, there was so much blood Dean couldn’t see the wounds anymore. After the fifth cut, his nerve endings finally lit up and Dean put down the knife next to the open and ready first aid kit.

Dean wasn’t even surprised when Cas appeared. He didn’t speak and Dean didn’t acknowledge him.

Dean held a folded gauze bandage to his forearm and pressed down. It stung and he inhaled sharply. Cas moved to touch him and Dean pulled away. “Don’t you dare,” he growled dangerously.

The next second Cas was gone and Dean was left alone. He jumped at the sound of a knock on the bathroom door.

“Dean?” It was Sam’s voice, groggy with sleep. “You okay?”

Dean stood up and wrapped a crepe bandage hastily round his arm, over the already darkly stained gauze. “Yeah!” He shrugged on his shirt and pulled the sleeves down.

“I thought I heard Cas.” The door handle rattled. “Why’s the door locked?”

Dean hid the razor in his wash bag and reached to open the door. Sam’s hair stood on end and his eyes looked bleary.

“I was on the can.”

“With Cas in there?” Sam rubbed his eyes.

“Guy has no freakin’ boundaries.”

“Whoa, dude,” Sam held a hand up. “You okay?”

Dean frowned. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve got blood on your shirt.” He pointed to Dean’s sleeve. A scarlet stain blossomed through the plaid.

“I’m fine,” Dean said again and pushed past his brother. He raked through his duffel and found a clean shirt. He turned away from Sam to hide his bandaged forearm as best he could. Clumsy and self-conscious, he pulled off the stained shirt and slipped on the clean one.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam reached out but Dean shrugged him off. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m going on a beer run.” He didn’t stop to pick up his jacket. He was out the door and in the Impala before Sam could say another word. A mile and a half from the motel (past at least three perfectly acceptable liquor stores), Cas appeared in the passenger seat.

“Sam is praying to me.” He looked ahead as he spoke, like Dean, his eyes on the road lit with the headlights of the Impala.

“Then go to him,” Dean said.

“Don't you want to know what he is asking me for?”

Dean didn't answer. He kept driving the straight road. He had half a tank of gas. He could get pretty far if he wanted to.

Cas continued as if Dean wasn't ignoring him. “He asks me to heal you.”

On the seat between them, Dean’s cell buzzed and lit up. Dean glanced down. _Sam calling_. He looked away, back out onto the road.

The phone stopped ringing. Dean exhaled shakily.

The buzzing started up again. Dean pulled the car over and killed the engine. He sighed and took the call. “Yeah.”

“Dean, what the hell! I've called you like ten times. Where are you?”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm just outside town, Sammy.”

“Is Cas with you?”

Dean sighed. “Yep. He's here.”

“Put him on.”

“Sam -”

“Put him on, Dean.”

Dean passed the phone to Cas who took it and said “Hello, Sam.”

It sounded like Sam was yelling. Cas opened his mouth to speak. The cell bleeped.

“He hung up.” Castiel frowned at the phone screen.

“He sounded mad,” Dean observed.

“Yes.”

Dean reached into the back seat and felt around. He retrieved a first aid kit. He continued to ignore Castiel’s watchful gaze as he shrugged off his shirt. Wincing, he peeled the bandage from his skin. The gauze had hardened with drying blood.

“Dean, please” Castiel said, beseeching. “Let me -”

“No.” Clumsily, Dean cleaned around the still gaping wounds with an antiseptic wipe. He struggled to apply butterfly stitches with one hand. “Son of a bitch.”

“I do not understand you,” Cas said, quietly.

“No, you don't,” Dean agreed.

“I know your soul, Dean, but I would seek to know your mind.”

Dean huffed when he failed to close the first cut. Castiel reached out but held back when Dean flinched. Then carefully, Cas took the paper stitch and gently placed it on Dean’s arm. Dean allowed him to apply the adhesive stitches and cover the swollen injury with a clean bandage.

“Thank you.”

“To see you so pained, I can hardly bare it,” Cas said, softly.

“We should get back.” The engine roared to life and Dean turned the Impala back onto the road towards the motel. He stopped at a Gas n’ Sip for beer and when he came back to the car, Castiel was gone.

Dean hoped Sam would be asleep when he crept back, give him some time to think of a lie. When he pulled up outside the motel, he saw their room light was on. He cursed under his breath and hesitated for a few seconds. He carried the beer cradled against his right arm. His lacerated left arm burned like his guilt.

Quietly, Dean unlocked the door, still hopeful that his brother might have already hit the hay; but Sam was awake, standing in the door of the bathroom.

In his hand, he held the matchbox, blotted with bloody fingerprints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic has been very cathartic for me. Thank you taking the time to read this far. Be warned things will get worse for Dean before they get better! But they will get better.


End file.
